Darkness.
Darkness reigned, filling Frodo with a silent dread. It was no normal darkness, it seemed more terrible somehow. It was laughing at him, mocking him.
Tears still ran down his face, unhindered. He had failed. The Quest had failed. Middle-earth was lost to darkness. It was all over. Bilbo, Merry, Pippin, Strider, Gimli, Legolas, Sam… They would all fall, as Gandalf had fallen.
Fall into the dark abyss of death and despair.
'Frodo…'
Her voice came to him again, pleading and strong. It spoke of hope still, and he wanted to believe it more than anything. Believe that he and Sam would walk on the grassy hills of the Shire again, laughing at the sun. Believe that he would hear Bilbo's gentle voice again, speaking of dragons and elves.
He wanted to believe, but he was not sure he could.
His body still hurt, as if some of the venom still lingered. Sam had done what he could, but stuck in the dark carves there was little to be done. The spider could very well return, and if not, the orcs would come eventually. They would be found; there was no escape.
And worst of all, his mind was crying out for the Ring. It had become precious to him, and now it was gone. He needed it, he longed for it. He was no longer sure if he was entirely himself anymore – he felt incomplete. As if the Ring had become a part of him.
What was the Ringbearer without a ring?
A failed Ringbearer.
Abashed, he hid his face against Sam's shoulder. The other hobbit had fallen into a light sleep, twitching every now and then.
'We are coming, Frodo. Have hope.'
Hope.
And Frodo waited in the dark, crying his silent tears, but he was not sure what he cried for most, the fate of Middle-earth, or the loss of the Ring.
******
Hope. Such a small word, but such a great emotion. It could bring victory against all odds, vanquish despair and grief. Hope. Great deeds were done in its name, Men and Elves alike embraced it. It did not have the power to defy death, but it could postpone it. It could be found in the most unlikely places, unlooked for.
Hope. Without it, there was nothing.
Gandalf stared into the flames, which were eating away at the wood in the fireplace and cackling in a comforting sort of way. He knew he should get up. There was much to be done, but his body felt so very, very tired.
And somewhere, in the back of his mind, the Dark Lord was muttering in his foul speech. Calling, tempting, threatening, gloating.
Sauron did not understand hope. He did not even consider it, for all he knew was the power of fear. But even the greatest fear could be conquered with hope.
Hope could save Aragorn, who was fighting demons in his head, demons darker than any night. Arwen was sitting by his side, waiting and hoping.
Elrond was off, gathering the elves of Rivendell. Soon, the orcs would come.
Gandalf felt a sharp stab to his heart at the thought. Beautiful Rivendell, the last Homely House, would fall and burn. And he could do little, for he dared not use the ring. Sauron was too strong now.
No. He would not think of such things, for there laid despair, and they needed hope. Aragorn had been lost, but he had been brought back to them. Time would show if he could come back into the light – if there ever would be more light to walk in.
Sighing, Gandalf leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling.
Saruman was dead. There had been time to catch only one, and it had been Aragorn's arm Gandalf had taken hold of. Saurman had fallen, his body breaking on impact with the unforgiving ground. But his eyes had spoken a silent plea in those last moments.
'Forgive me.'
Saruman had sought redemption at the most unlikely moment. Was it a sign of hope?
"Gandalf?" Elrond stood in the doorway now, having entered soundlessly. He looked old and tired, and his eyes seemed to have lost their gleam. There was no starlight there anymore.
Gandalf did not answer, merely fixed his keen eyes on the elf.
"Many elves are fleeing for the Havens. Will you, Gandalf?"
"No."
Elrond nodded, as if expecting it.
"Lothlórien has burned. Celeborn has fallen, but they say Galadriel lives still," the Elf said after a while. "I expected her to make for Rivendell, but she has not come."
"She will not come." Gandalf sighed. "The eagles have seen her with Legolas and Gimli. They are heading for Mordor."
"Mordor!" Elrond exclaimed. "That is madness!"
"Perhaps. Or perhaps she has seen something we have not."
Gandalf reached for his staff, clutching it hard in his hand. It was a small thing, but it felt comforting to grasp it. The wood felt warm in his hand.
Had Galadriel found hope? She could see further than any in Middle- earth. If there was light still, she would find it. It was not much, a single star in the darkness – but it might be enough.
He got up, every bone in his body protesting. It did not matter. One way or another, an end would come soon enough. For now, he had things to do. Middle-earth would not surrender to the shadow of Sauron without a fight. Gandalf would see to it. He would not flee. Fighting Sauron in Middle-earth as his task, and he would accomplish it or die.
He just wished his body did not feel so tired, his mind so heavy and his heart so cold.
Hope. He had to believe.
"Bring us light, Galadriel," he whispered.